But are they really that bad...?
by Fyrie
Summary: There are many befuddling issues in LOTR. I have an interesting outlook on them. How would they fair on the equivalent of Gerry Springer? Forgive this blasphemy, but I *had* to do it.


The large television studio was bustling, as the audience members filed into their seats, talking in low, excited voices and looking around eagerly for the first sighting of their host for the evening, Gary Spaniel.  
  
The stage was neat and organised, four intact chairs (with reinforced arms and legs , to hopefully prevent breakage by irritated guests) seated in a row on the reddish-pink carpet, in front of the wooden backdrop.  
  
Flowers – all colourful, plastic and highly inflammable (and toxic, but sh! If we don't say, whose to know that they're slowly killing everyone stupid enough to attend the show) – in large, tacky vases also made up a vital part of the set. What would a tacky chat sow be in the absence of the flowers?  
  
A minor scuffle between an orc and a squat Hobbit male had broken out in the back rows of the audience, the topic of debate apparently involving the Earth-shattering issue of the plural of the name of the Proudfoots (Proudfeet! Sorry!).  
  
A security women hastily hurried towards the pair. Wearing the uniform polo-shirt with 'Security' stitched on the back and totally unfashionable trousers, she didn't look quite...right in her role as bouncer.  
  
Blonde hair hung in waves around an Elfin face (which is actually quite literal, as she was – in fact – an Elf), which was currently wrinkled ever- so-slightly in the brow region with clear annoyance that anyone would dare to cause a ruckus without her permission.  
  
"You should not fight." She said in a strangely ethereal way that made all males within a five foot radius gape at her with sheer wonder.  
  
"And why wouldn't I?" The Orc scowled at her. Blue eyes widened at him, and she fixed him with a cool stare, no expression on her face. Suddenly the Orc burst into tears. "I'm sorry! I should go and say sorry to all those Hobbits I massacred cos it was bad!"  
  
The Elf woman watched with amusement as the Orc fled from the set, sobbing.  
  
"Any problems here, Security Chief Galadriel?" Another Elf, this one a male one by the name of Agent Smith...er...I mean Elrond approached, wearing clothes that matched hers, listening to a voice in his earpiece.  
  
"Nothing I can't handle, son." The blonde Elf woman smiled at him.  
  
Elrond nodded. "Fight in the crowd taken care of." He reported back, through a walkie talkie, which crackled. "Mum, you have to teach me how to do that staring thing. Maybe if I could do that, Arwen would do what she was told."  
  
"Still bitter about her marrying that human?"  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He sniffed. She stared straight at him, a slight smile visible as the corner of her lips rose. "All right, yes! I wanted my little girl to live forever, not end up a mortal."  
  
"We could have a whole show about our family exploits." She remarked, gliding past the muttering Elrond, who had apparently said some very rude words into his walkie talkie, much to the shock of Bilbo on the other end.  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" A shrill voice called out, making everyone in the audience wince with the piercing intensity of it. "Hobbits and Orcs! Elves and dwarfs! Please give a big hand to your host for today's show, Gary Spaniel!"  
  
Of course, there had to be someone literal in the crowd.  
  
A cave troll's disembodied hand landed on the stage with a meaty thump.  
  
However, it was too late for the props people to liberate it from the stage, as Gary Spaniel erupted from the door at the back of the stage, with his curly mullet, cheesy grin and God-awful tie all in place.  
  
His eyes skimmed over the troll's hand and he rolled his eyes. It was probably the oldest joke in the book and since he already had a stash of about fifty of the damn things, it really wasn't funny anymore.  
  
"Good afternoon, everyone!" He yelled over the cheers that had exploded around the studio when the 'Applaud, or by God we'll rip your guts out and make you eat them!' signs had lit up to cue the audience in. "I'm your host, Gary Spaniel and today's show is about those people we see as bad guys..." A sympathetic look crossed his nearing-fifty-but-just-pretend-I'm- young-and-handsome face. "But are they really all that bad?"  
  
"Well, yeah!" A voice bellowed from the crowd.  
  
"Thank you for that completely useless piece of audience participation!" Spaniel yelled back enthusiastically. "Now, moving on, our first guest has been stuck with the label of demon, ever since he was conjured in the mines of Moria. He has been accused of being evil and brutal and many other cruel things..." Spaniel shook his head sadly. "Please welcome, with his interpreter, the Balrog!"  
  
Reluctant cheers became somewhat more enthusiastic when the signs lit up with an additional 'Cheer or else we pour the contents of Mount Doom on you' for encouragement.  
  
The stage door opened and the huge...thing entered, a monster of shadow and flame (but in a completely non-judgmental, non-biased way, of course), with a small Goblin jogging alongside him, looking very singed.  
  
Carefully sitting down on one of the chairs, the Balrog looked around nervously, despite the fact that he was almost as big as the studio and could squish any of them at will, the flame of his specially styled hair causing havoc with the light rigging.  
  
"Good afternoon, Mister Balrog. Welcome to the show."  
  
A bellow issued from the flaming mouth and the Goblin squeaked. "Thank you, Gary. And I'm a Miss, not a Mister."  
  
"My apologies, Miss Balrog." The presenter's fixed smile was already in place, as he fiddled with cue cards and took his place on the steps amid the audience. "Would you like to tell us why you're here?"  
  
Low-pitched rumbles escaped the towering inferno of darkness and fire (in a thoroughly acceptable way, of course) and the Goblin listened carefully, before chattering quickly. "The Balrog wants to explain that she isn't the evil thing that everyone makes her out to be. She is sick of having her name slandered."  
  
"Indeed...in what way has your name been slandered, then?"  
  
The Goblin translated flame-muffled growls that seemed to shake the studio, right down to the foundations. "For one, she thinks the term demon is offensive. She prefers to be known as a being of undetermined dark origins." The shadowy head nodded, fiery eyes flickering. "She would also like to ask people to be kind enough not to attack her."  
  
"Attack her?"  
  
"Only a short time ago...slow down, I'm trying to explain..." The Balrog mumbled an apology, reaching down to pat the Goblin and accidentally setting it's head on fire. The Goblin cursed sufficiently to receive a bleeping and then – once the flames had been put out with a tidal wave kindly provided by Elrond – continued. "As I was saying, a short time ago, a large group of people broke into her home, vandalising it beyond repair, and when she confronted them, one of them broke her only bridge that let her get out of her home to do her shopping."  
  
Gary shook his head, clicking his tongue. "That's just shocking." He looked down at his cards, then smiled. "Miss Balrog, what would you do if you happened to run across one of these vandals...in the form of a non- violent reaction?"  
  
A flare of fire erupted from her eyes and mouth in a reaction that could only be classed as 'mild anger'. Gary coughed out a smoke-ring to rival one of those produced by a legendary wizard and blinked singed eye-lashes.  
  
"Elrond, the fire crew is ready, isn't it?" He muttered into the microphone in his cuff. The answer came back through his ear-piece as an affirmative. "Well, I think that means its time for our next guest...please welcome the Wizard formerly known as Grey! Gandalf the White!"  
  
"They changed the stupid git's name just because he finally figured out to use a washing machine?" A Hobbit in the audience muttered. "Why not just call him Gandalf the Formerly Unhygenic and Smelly?"  
  
None-the-less, Gandalf strode through the stage doors, looking all impressive and shiny and white (blindingly so, but he was such a rare guest to get hold of that no one was really going to complain about their sudden loss of vision).  
  
With the efficiency of a drop of rain watering a whole desert, Elrond's second tidal wave didn't stop Gandalf from becoming a veritable human torch. And the colour did look remarkably good on him as well.  
  
Fortunately, since this is a PG story, no one dies.  
  
Gandalf had suspected something was up, when he had received the invite to the show. He had felt it in his waters...and when your urine escapes as a column of flame, you know its time to whip out the trusty, old flame- retardant knickers.  
  
Also, he was an almighty and supremely-white-n-shiny wizard, so being set on fire was one of the oldest tricks they had taught him in his 'U-2-Can-Do- Magic' spell course that he had got on mail order from the internet.  
  
After the Balrog had been suitably calmed and offered a glass of petroleum for her frayed nerves and everyone was seated again, Spaniel turned his attention to the wizard, trying to ignore the fact that his nasal hair was still smouldering.  
  
"So, Mr. Gandalf," Shaking his head in disappointment, he asked. "What do you have to say to Miss Balrog's accusations?"  
  
"Its a load of tosh, of course." The bearded Wizard waved a dismissive hand. "We passed through the mines of Moria, that is true, but we were on a mission to save the whole of Middle Earth from doom."  
  
"That's the oldest excuse in the book!" The Goblin interpreter squealed. "You and your friends broke into the mine, broke her favourite staircases and smashed the bridge that was her only exit and told her she couldn't cross it, when it was hers all along." He reached up to comfortingly pat the shadowy arm of the being of undetermined dark origins.  
  
"Piffle!" Gandalf snorted.  
  
"You claim you didn't break the bridge?"  
  
"She came at me with a huge flaming sword of death and a light whip!" The Wizard shouted over the rumble of the Balrog. "What the heck was I meant to do? Stand there and say 'All right! Come and kill me already!'?"  
  
"That wasn't a flaming sword of death!" The Goblin translated rapidly. "She had been pruning in the garden, when she heard them and came to see what they were doing."  
  
"And the whip?" Gary raised a brow.  
  
"That was for Fifi." The Goblin explained. "She has a three-headed dog that was a gift from the underworld and she was told that was the only way to housetrain him." By now, the Balrog was making strange sounds like thunder. "Oh, don't cry, Ballie..."  
  
"You're saying she was pruning and training her dog at the same time?"  
  
"Don't be stupid." The Goblin snapped at Gandalf. "She was keeping Fifi off the roses."  
  
A deafening bellow escaped the Balrog, who was apparently crying. She looked down at Gandalf and raised a shadowy fist. Several people managed to cry out in surprise, before she smooshed him through the floor.  
  
(Don't worry. He's Gandalf, so he'll naturally survive anything, because he's so wonderful and powerful...not to mention freshly-washed-laundry- white-unless-you-put-a-red-sock-in-by-accident-and-dyed-everything-pink.)  
  
"He has fallen into shadows." Galadriel murmured from stage left.  
  
Elrond rolled his eyes in her dirction. "He's fallen through the stage, mum."  
  
The blonde Elf woman shrugged. "Close enough."  
  
"Yeah," Gandalf bellowed from under the stage. "It is rather dark down here as well. Anyone got a light I can use?" The Balrog snorted in disdain, but that sent a fireball careening through the hole and set the Wizard alight again. "Thanks!"  
  
Several fire and rescue crews rushed in and Spaniel was quickly directed to another camera, trying to ignore the smell of burning beard.  
  
"Well, it looks like were taking a break here." He said, blinking through the clouds of smoke wafting over him. "Join us again for part two of the show, where we'll be meeting more of those people we love to hate."  
  
"What? Elves?" A burly dwarf grunted.  
  
"Hey!" Galadriel yelled indignantly.  
  
"Cut." Spanial yelled feverishly, stepping quickly between his glamorous, yet unintimidating-without-the-stare security chief and the vertically challenged and follicly endowed member of the audience. "Cut noooooooooooooooooooooooooow!" 


End file.
